


Der König von Böhmen (King of Bohemia)

by Sherloki1854



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: A Scandal in Bohemia, Because it makes much more sense, How I see 'Scandal', M/M, Slash, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2358374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherloki1854/pseuds/Sherloki1854
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Holmes has to solve a case that is not a case at all and Watson tries to sort out his own problems. <br/>(Basically, a slash rewrite of 'A Scandal In Bohemia')</p>
            </blockquote>





	Der König von Böhmen (King of Bohemia)

**Author's Note:**

> I've always felt that the King's actions in 'A Scandal In Bohemia' lacked a motive, as he was not really in any danger. This is why I sorted 'Scandal' into the category of cases that were changed very much to hide the identity of the people involved, and the case itself, like 'The Adventure Of The Three Students', so why wouldn't it make sense to say that the real situation was much graver for the King of Bohemia?   
> Also, just one quite sentence about Mary Morstan: I never liked her but even though personally I think she is a literary creation thought up by the doctor as his and Holmes' relationship was questioned, I had to put her in here to use the beginning of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story. 
> 
> Disclaimer: this is a non-profit work of fiction, i.e. me playing with characters created by Sir ACD over a century ago. No copyright violation intended. The beginning (first paragraph) is Sir ACD's work.

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap.  
“Come in!” said Holmes.  
A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of Astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk, and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended half way up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheek-bones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.  
“You had my note?” he asked, with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.  
“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?”  
“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.”  
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.”  
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years, at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.”  
“I promise,” said Holmes.  
“And I.”  
“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.”  
“I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.  
“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.”  
“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes.  
Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner, and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes, and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.  
“If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.”  
The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried, “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?”

 

"I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you."  
"Then, pray consult", said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.  
The King of Bohemia did not appear to be willing to voice his problem. There are two types of clients: those who desperately wish to speak and those who fear to do so. Only one course of action remained if Holmes' presence did not animate a visitor to speak. I prompted, "Does it have something to do with a woman?"  
He laughed harshly and cruelly, a sound appropriate to his powerful appearance, and desperately cried, "Oh, I wish it could be so, for then I would be free! I cannot talk openly of my problem yet. First, I have to ask something of great importance of you: to swear to me not to breathe a word of what will follow, as it would doubtlessly cause a European crisis if any of it came to light in any way. Do you take the oath?"  
Holmes nodded wordlessly , and I – the thought of not granting the King of Bohemia's request never occurring to me – followed suit. He looked gravely upon us and slowly but clearly, with his marked accent somewhat diminished by his words, stated, "It has something to do with a man."  
Understanding dawned on Holmes' features, but I must have looked thoroughly puzzled, as our noble guest sighed and said, glancing towards me, "Three years ago, on an official trip through Europe on the occasion of my coronation, I visited Paris. It is supposed to be the city of love, but it has only brought misery upon me. There, I fell in love with a young man."  
I could barely keep my shock and abhorrence to myself, although I resolved not interfere before I knew whether he meant this the way I thought he meant it, and pondered on the promise I had made, but Holmes only languidly murmured, "Please continue."  
"As you know, the Napoleonic laws allow certain freedoms to men of my...disposition, so I was eager to become acquainted with the city's ways. And there it was that I first met Mr Alexis Faulkner. He is a young man of great personal beauty, fair and with liquid brown eyes, and of wonderfully refined manners, an aristocrat from the Isle of Skye in the north of Scotland. His father gambled away most of the once substantial family fortune in his youth, and so the family had been derelict for decades, the few assets that still remained dwindling away in the past few years. Alexis was left with nearly nothing compared to the riches he was entitled to by birth.   
I must confess that I was drawn in with him, his mind, his person, his whole life, and there has been an affair."  
At this point, I was seriously considering calling upon Holmes' common sense to end this visitor's account, but I was mute owing to my emotional turmoil. So the conversation continued without my planned interruption.  
Holmes, on the other hand, drily addressed the King of Bohemia, " 'Has been', you said. So it is finished? Ah, I thought so. But then why are you here? Have you made any promises you cannot keep?"  
I was astonished by how businesslike he was, even though I have never known him not to be factual. Still, the precariousness of the situation was beyond belief.  
"I regret to say that it did not end cordially. He left in a rage, yet I thought nothing of it. I did not hear anything from him for over two years, but when two days ago I arrived in England - I am on a state visit - I got word from him. He is threatening to disclose our...dalliance, but has not offered me a way to ransom my freedom."  
"What can he possibly have that would bring such destruction? Letters? Forged."  
"On my own paper."  
"Stolen."  
"And a photograph."  
"Bought."  
"But we are on it together."  
"My, my. Is it compromising?"  
"Very. Enough for me to be sentenced for sodomy, and British courts tend to believe the ancient nobility's claims. The repercussions of the Napoleonic laws have brought comparative ease and freedom to both France and Bohemia, but I cannot possibly let this come to light, lest I be imprisoned here. And obviously, there is no way for me to remain king if anyone caught a hint of what has occurred. I have no male relatives, there is nobody who could lead Bohemia, so if this photograph comes to light, it might very well influence European history by jeopardising me."  
I could not imagine the horrors this photograph must contain, but Holmes calmly stated, "I see. Could you kindly give me Mr Alexis Faulkner's address? Thank you. I will see to this problem immediately."  
The King looked at Holmes earnestly and entreated, "Please. Secrecy, as you promised."  
Holmes smiled and nodded, and even I managed a curt nod. Our visitor looked very relieved and smiled back at my friend thankfully.   
Both he and the King of Bohemia rose from their seats, and Holmes accompanied the King to the door, shook hands with him and murmured a few quiet words, at which the King looked as if a great weight had been taken from him, and afterwards took his leave. 

 

I was still frozen on my seat when Holmes came back and sat down again, but then my restraint left me and I barley managed to press out the words "You cannot possibly mean this" through gritted teeth. Holmes merely laughed, but sobered up quickly at my expression.  
Apprehensively he asked, "Is the thought really so abhorrent to you, doctor? Surely, as a man of science, your views must have been broadened."  
I had trouble putting my emotions into words, but eventually choked out, "This could get you imprisoned for treason for keeping a man from Her Majesty's justice. Not to mention that such acts are neither natural nor moral."  
He looked abashed. "Do you mean that or are these only your prejudices speaking on their own?"   
He seemed so hopeful and disappointed at the same time that it clicked in my mind, and I simply said, "No."  
"Had you not guessed it?", he asked sadly.  
I felt like suffocating. "Give me a minute – only a minute - to wrap my mind around it, please..." My mind raced. What could I possibly do now? How ought I to react? The only thing I knew was that I could not betray him.   
He knew me well. "You need not accept it. If you feel compelled to go, I will not hold it against you."  
But the mere thought of losing Sherlock Holmes was more terrible than any prejudice I had been raised with.  
So I made my decision. "I do not mind your...preferences, as long as I am not involved. Can I trust you with this?"  
His usually laconic expression suddenly morphed into one of joy and relief. He, having previously retreated to one corner of our old rooms, rushed up to me and enthusiastically shook my hand. "I assure you, my dear doctor, I will never do anything against your wishes."  
I, slightly overwhelmed from the events of the last hour, fell back into my armchair. "And now, my dear fellow, can you answer me some questions?"  
"Obviously. I suppose you wish to know how far I have gone in your nescience? Quite far, but discreetly. I am not a person who randomly looks for pleasure, and my influence on the police, paired with my brother's power, protects me. Did I have any hopes about you when we first met years ago? No, I did not. I am a cold person more often than not, so I considered you a flatmate at first, and then afterwards a friend: I would not dream of imposing myself on you in any way. And even if I wanted it...well, let me say that I can control my emotions better than most, as you know very well."  
"Are you in contact with others like you?"  
"Please, my dear doctor, you know me..."  
The rest of the evening was spent in amicable silence, and when Holmes accompanied me home on his way to his brother's club (for he had solved a case of some relevance to the British Government himself) we naturally walked arm in arm.  
When I came home my wife was not there, so I sat down and produced all scientific articles on so-called "sexual anomalies" which I had in my journals and magazines.  
The topic became increasingly interesting and less abnormal when I read my way through those essays, most of them from Germany, and when my wife came home, I had just started reading Plato's 'Symposium' for further information, although obviously biased, but I quickly hid the ancient tome inherited form my father in order not to annoy her. Mary, however, did not seem to be in the mood to be affected by me in any way, as she was quite angry about something she refused to tell me. Like always since our marriage I deeply regretted that our easy communication from before our marriage was gone, and I hoped Mary felt the same. This, however, was a vain hope. She did not seem to be interested enough. 

 

A few days later, returning from a professionally challenging case that had required several hours of hard work to bring back my patient from the brink of death, I decided to call on my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes. I was showed in by Mrs Hudson and left in our old rooms with Holmes' message that he was working on a case but would arrive soon. Minutes later, Holmes entered the room, laughing merrily. He threw me his cigarette case, still overflowing with mirth. "Help yourself, doctor. I have just broken into Mr Faulkner's house."  
"My dear fellow," I cried, "How extraordinary!"  
"I disguised myself. I saw him leave the house at ten in the morning, so I quietly slipped into the garden and broke into the building. The man lives in a good style, but obviously has not had much money to spend lately, as most of his possessions are heirlooms from a fallen-from-grace fin-de-siecle aristocratic family. I have not seen so much fine art in a while. I had just reached the living-room when I heard a noise. It was Mr Faulkner."  
"Holmes! What happened?"  
"We talked. He was not favourably disposed to comply with the King of Bohemia's wishes, but is ready to negotiate. He is desperate. As an extremely beautiful man he has attracted attention among his neighbours, who take his presence very ill and have instigated the police to observe him with generous monetary presents. I do not know how he has caused their dislike, but now the threat of an accusal for gross indecency, is looming over him, and he can only escape prosecution by leaving England very soon, which is the reason why he has decided to blackmail his former lover. It was not a choice he made willingly, and he deeply regrets causing the King so much pain."  
"So nothing was decided upon?", I asked after a pause, attempting to sort the new information.   
"As I said, he wants to talk to the King, and in person, but he has not attempted to make any arrangements yet. He might come here in the next few days, though."  
My answer was interrupted by one of the boys from Bakes Street who occasionally acted as Holmes' eyes and ears barging into the room, saying, "Report, Sir, the brother has just left the government facilities."  
"Thank you! Another case," he continued, directed towards me. "A pretty little investigation for Mycroft's sake. I have to do something to retain my position as the government's only trusted external advisor. I will have to call on my brother, for this is an interesting development."  
We both left, parting ways at the front door: he to investigate in the abysses of the British secret system, I to return home to my wife. By the time I arrived at home, the nagging doubts I had had multiplied, but I did not know what they meant, so I ignored them.

 

The next day saw me leaning back into my old armchair at 221b Baker Street again, heatedly arguing with myself whether I could tell my friend about the clouds on the horizon that had appeared in my domestic life. On the one hand, I simply was not accustomed to disclosing my problems at home to people, and I felt that I had brought the marriage upon myself, but one the other hand my "friend and partner" Mr Sherlock Holmes - disliking women in general and my wife in particular - was the most suitable person I knew to go to with a troubled mind. His methods might not be exactly mild - he was a little cruel sometimes - but he would at least try to understand me, being a true friend. Still, the argument that I should not tell anyone about mine and my wife's connubial problems outweighed everything else, and I had already resolved against asking him for help when he interrupted my thoughts, "So, my dear doctor, what is troubling you so much? An unresolved issue with your wife Mary Watson nee Morstan?"  
"Upon my word, how did you know exactly what I wanted to ask your advice about? But you are right. There is no use in denying it. I am already starting to doubt that I was right in proposing to her after barely a few weeks' acquaintance without knowing her real character. She seems...unsatisfied and spends most of her time out or snapping at me when we are both at home, which however does not happen often not only due to my work and our investigations, but also due to her constant dinner parties and trips. Sometimes she simply disappears for days on end, and a few weeks ago she even used the excuse of having to visit her mother to leave, although one of the first things she told us about was that she is an orphan!"  
"In short, you think she may be having an affair?"   
"Holmes!", I cried scandalised, "You cannot just say that!"  
"Why not? I put what you implied into comprehensible words. But I will leave you with that, she will have to explain her behaviour to you herself. I really cannot help you with this."  
I was stunned, but the bell saved me by preventing any reply.

 

When the young man entered, I saw exactly why the King of Bohemia had undertaken all the risks connected to a sodomous relationship to be with him. Mr Faulkner was classically beautiful indeed and dressed with finesse that accentuated his thin waist and well-proportioned body, although Holmes, forever the cold reasoning-machine, did not seem to be impressed in the slightest.  
"Good day to you both. As you might have guessed, I have come to arrange a meeting with the King of Bohemia. I cannot contact him by myself, else both of us will be in vital danger." His voice, as rich as his whole person, was sad. It had a sorrowful tinge that caused the listener to consider how it would be to live the life of a fugitive forced to blackmail a loved one in order to survive.  
Holmes, sensing his distress, swiftly replied, "The King will call on me later later: he said he would come at five, and it is but half an hour to wait. Do you agree on staying?"  
He said he would, and Holmes - glancing at me nervously - managed to draw him into a conversation on the changes the Napoleonic laws have brought to men like them, which thankfully did not require me voicing my opinion, but induced me to wonder what the King would do. The half-hour passed quickly, and ere I could make up my mind on anything at all the bell rang again, and our illustrious client entered the room. Upon hearing the King's steps, Holmes had swiftly retreated, so that the King's first look was on his lover, and Sherlock Holmes watched the events unfold with a slightly amused glint in his eyes.   
At first, they simply stared at each other speechlessly, and the absolute silence began to disquiet me subliminally.   
The King of Bohemia, richly dressed in velvets and furs that accentuated his powerful body once again, gazed at Mr Alexis Faulkner intensely, and his expression began to assume a rather dangerous streak. His eyes widened, then squinted and remained like that, nearly closed, showing the threat of a truly lethal predator, at which Mr Alexis Faulkner blanched with fear. The latter's eyes stayed wide open, mesmerised by his former lover's stance, then slowly, very slowly, he extended his hands and shyly whispered "Wilhelm...", with desperate hope lacing his beautiful voice, but the King of Bohemia thoroughly ignored Mr Faulkner's tentative offer of reconciliation and love, and my reluctant hope for a happy outcome was nearly crushed, when the King suddenly gave a violent shout, grabbed his startled lover, who was extremely scared by then and looked ready to flee to avoid more pain, and kissed him roughly, murmuring "Alexis, oh my Alexis...", very clearly claiming Mr Alexis Faulkner.   
Silent tears of remorse and love fell from Alexis Faulkner's deep brown eyes, as the bear-like king tenderly wrapped him into an embrace. Both of them looked at my friend, who was still enjoying the situation immensely, very gratefully, but Mr Faulkner beat the King in speaking out first, mumbling with a voice broken from crying and relief, "Wilhelm, I am incredibly sorry. I cannot fathom how I ever let myself blackmail you..." His voice wavered and died away.   
"Shush," the King of Bohemia cooed, and said more loudly, directed at Sherlock Holmes and me, "I thank you so much for allowing us to reunite after these despicable years of hate, all is well now. I hope at least" (now looking at his lover doubtful with fear) "that we will stay together. I will grant you passage to France with Mr Holmes' brother's help, and Bohemian laws allow us to love each other again in safety, at least if we take precautions. That is, if you still want to...", he quickly added.   
The other man was fairly gleaming and shining with happiness by then, so Sherlock Holmes interjected, "Well, this is lovely. I would suggest that you do not return to your house, though, Mr Faulkner. I know for a fact that a warrant for your arrest has been issued mere hours ago, and the police would love to arrest you with your famous lover to feed the masses with an interesting and scandalous trial. You should consider your further moves carefully. If I may recommend a course of action, take a carriage from here straight to the King's hotel, leave in the dead of night from Victoria Station and take the last ferry across the channel. I will persuade my brother to make it appear perfectly reasonable for you to leave union and unannounced. What about an ill relation with great political influence? What do you think of that excuse?" The two lovers gladly acquiesced, and after they had left, Sherlock Holmes turned towards me.

 

"I am somewhat stunned," I replied to his questioning expression. "If I had seen this scene only a few days ago, I would have alerted the police, but now I find their love wonderful. How they would defy society together... Two men against the rest of the world..."  
With a laugh he said, "I see your change with gladness. I am happy for them too, but even more I relish in the fact that you now know and accept me. Thank you for being such a true friend to me."  
I was overwhelmed by how much he revealed of his heart - he, the cold reasoning-machine who abhorred all softer emotions - and attempted to say so, but he cut me off with another light laugh and the words, "Well, if I really am so important to you, then you will be disappointed to hear that I am leaving for France at the end of the week. Unfortunately, this is a secret, albeit dull, government business that cannot be delayed. The Queen herself assigned an important task to me, and although I do not know anything yet, I hope it will be interesting. However, it will take me at least a few weeks. Will you manage?", he added with a mischievous glint and chuckle.  
"My dear fellow! What do you expect?", I cried, "I wish you a good time. I suppose I will not hear from you, will I? But yes, of course I will manage."

 

On my way back home, however, I felt a twinge of sadness creep upon my heart. I would not see my friend for a long time now, for he was a thorough investigator and would wish to fulfill the Queen's order.  
In the next several weeks of Sherlock Holmes' absence, I often dwelled upon the matter he had exposed to me; I still could scarcely conceive that the man I had been intimate with for years, even sharing rooms with, had managed to hide the plain fact that he was attracted to his own sex, and could therefore be considered a criminal, although this particular point did quite a satisfactory job at reconciling my mind (as my heart had given up on everything concerning Sherlock Holmes already) with the idea: Mr Sherlock Holmes, though cooperating with the official police force and the government, had often laughed at law and order and purposely scorned them.  
My own problems at home aggravated. My once sweet and caring wife had somehow morphed into a distant apparition. She did spend time at home, but she never talked to me without me explicitly asking her something or other, and what really troubled me was her coldness. Mary had been sensitive and talkative before, but now she had become rude and silent, even brooding. This scared me, for paired with Holmes' continued absence, it meant that I was alone. I feared that she really might be having an affair, or at least much distaste for me, and I had no other idea what to do than ask Holmes. So I did the most stupid thing I could possibly have done: I confronted my wife.  
At dinner, about three weeks after Holmes had left, I asked her quite bluntly whether she was being untrue to me, and her first reaction could have been anticipated: she started yelling at me.  
"So you have finally noticed? Good for you!''  
I could only stare back at her.   
''Do you not see why? It is not like I married you to free myself from work, I did like you, but you are the wrong sort of husband for me. Now I have the opportunity I have wanted all along. Who are you to deny me this?"  
I was not as shocked as I thought I would be, for I realised I should have known this before. I felt betrayed, but Mary's betrayal was not an acute pain. I was not as touched by this as I had expected. It rather felt like a dull addition to my doubts, and the instant she told me she did not love me at all, my illusion of love for her shattered, leaving my mind and heart free and sound. But I wanted to know why.   
"Seriously, John? Even without taking my lover into account, I could never have been content with you by my side. I did nor understand your friendship with Mr Holmes when we were married, but now it is obvious: you love him more than you could ever even attempt to love any woman, which is scandalous, and if I had proof, I would surely have done something about it already, but I have not, and you should consider yourself lucky!"  
She glanced at me with contempt, and this was the last time I would see her in a long tome: she left the house. Later, I would discover that all her possessions had been carried out of the house in the morning, so she would have gone away anyway. As for my supposed feelings for Sherlock Holmes, after long consideration of the matter I was not so sure any more that I did not harbour any apart from the loyalty that mutual friendship inspires. Therefore, I decided to go to live at Baker Street again (while still keeping my medical practice) to be able to forget my short months with Mary Morstan and understand my own feelings. I had been completely content with being a bachelor there in the presence of Sherlock Holmes, after all.

 

So, on a rainy afternoon about a month after Holmes had left for the continent, I found myself sitting in the familiar rooms I had once shared with my friend (I hoped he would not object to my sudden return), pondering Mary's accusation, when I heard the sound of a carriage stopping at 221b Baker Street. I rushed to the window and saw Holmes' peculiar cloth cap and his favourite overcoat.  
Seconds later, I could hear his firm steps on the stairs, and by the time he opened the door I was back in my armchair and staring at it. My friend was back.  
Instantly I knew I had been absolutely wrong in all my estimates. It is enough to say that the fact that he looked slightly tired caused a surge of protectiveness I never knew existed before swelling inside me. I could only stare at my old friend. The one person I knew and the one person who had ever bothered to get to know me. I must confess that I thought I could not act on this new-found feeling, and so I began to suffer, even in his mirth as he doffed his cloth cap and his coat, returning to his usual more accessible self, and greeted me enthusiastically. All I could do in response was nod.  
To my luck, Sherlock Holmes - being the most intelligent man in Europe - immediately understood what had happened. His expression first turned incredulous, then beautifully joyous, and he rushed up to me. I, however, was still frozen, too stunned to do anything, and unfortunately my friend saw that, interpreted it as disgust or fear at the very least, and consequently recoiled a mere yard from me, desperately attempting to apologise to salvage the situation.  
"Please forgive me. I thought that you...but it does not matter. I will leave now." He bolted for the door, but all I could think of were his distraught pleading eyes. The second he was out of the door, my mind caused a reaction, and I pulled myself together to run after Mr Sherlock Holmes. Due to my own despair, I somehow managed to reach him before he fled from the house - and me - forever. I grabbed his wrists and held on to him. Then I looked him in the eyes, and knowing that he was not used to steering through emotions and therefore I had to speak out before he was lost to me, said clearly, "You were right before, I do love you. And I would be honoured if you felt the same way for me. Please..."  
Sherlock Holmes' expression was set when he took hold of my wrists in turn and drew me closer to him. I could scarcely control my excitement and yet anxiety when he softly kissed first my forehead and then my lips.

 

Later, when we were in our rooms, with me overflowing with happiness and even my else cold friend visibly glad, incessantly smiling at me while telling me how he had come to love me so.  
"When I said that I did not see you that way, it was completely true. I was so afraid that you would never talk to me again if you knew of my disposition that I always forbade myself to even consider you as a potential lover. But when you accepted it, I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that I began to fall in love with you, and although I tried to stop it, I failed this one time in suppressing my desires. I love you as I never loved anyone before."  
"I did not believe that love between men could be a noble emotion before, so I was naturally shocked, but I quickly understood that it could be so. I must tell you that Mary has left me because she thought that you were more important to me than she was. I considered that I might love you, but did not really think that possible, yet when I saw you today I knew I had been wrong the whole time, I simply never knew."  
We were silent for a bit, then Sherlock (for he is Sherlock to me now) asked the question that had to be put: "But how can me make this work? England is hostile, but Mycroft will surely protect us. We already live together, nothing would have to change with our way of life. But it could be dangerous. Are you willing to take the risk, my dear doctor?"  
I did not hesitate. "I will take any risk. We will make this work somehow, and we will be happy."  
Sherlock looked at me like he wanted to say something in reply, but he was hindered from doing this by the ring of the bell.  
"It seems, my dearest doctor, that we have a client!"


End file.
